The Self That Paints Alone and Hidden

by Matthew Kenneth Kosak

But don’t these clouds, like sculpted flowers

Rise hot, in June’s summer gardens?

And Time speaks softly in the wind

Of change and bright things yet to come

And they in their course take their places

As plants grow and populate a self-checked sky?

I exchange these hazy views of eternity

For the words with which my poor pencil writes

You were once of the lovely things

My child in my eye took, gleaning from nature

And now you have taken what’s been given

The echo of your voice rings in the things

That transport a reflection through space

Of the self, that paints alone and hidden.

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